


Halfway

by domesticadventures



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Coda, Episode: s11e15 Beyond the Mat, Headspace, M/M, Prayer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 02:50:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6138781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/domesticadventures/pseuds/domesticadventures
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As he rinses off the grime of yet another hunt, Dean realizes that while he may have been grinding for thirty-odd years, Cas, in the time Dean has known him, has always been one for grand gestures. Looking back, it’s all too obvious that Cas can’t seem to lead without playing God, can’t fight for humanity without falling entirely, can’t devote himself to a cause without dying for it.</p><p>That’s the thing about Castiel: he never does anything halfway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Halfway

The problem with making bold declarations is that in the empty hours that follow, Dean has plenty of time to tear them down, to pick them apart one flaw at a time.

What chance does a moment of certainty stand against a lifetime of doubt and disappointment? Besides, if he’s good at anything, it’s finding fault in himself.

Still, he wishes it would stop coming as such a surprise.

It dawns on him slowly, as he scrubs blood from his knuckles and winces at the bruises spreading slowly over his skin, the only tokens he will ever receive from his childhood hero, that if Cas is truly determined to see this through to the end, there won’t be anything Dean can do to stop him.

He wants to believe otherwise, of course. He’s always wanted to believe it, has gone so far as to wrap his own protective version of reality around himself to deny the truth of Cas’ agency, of his choices that have so often felt like betrayals.

As he rinses off the grime of yet another hunt, Dean realizes that while he may have been grinding for thirty-odd years, Cas, in the time Dean has known him, has always been one for grand gestures. Looking back, it’s all too obvious that Cas can’t seem to lead without playing God, can’t fight for humanity without falling entirely, can’t devote himself to a cause without dying for it.

That’s the thing about Castiel: he never does anything halfway.

It makes sense, Dean supposes. He’s never read more of the Bible than he had to for the job, but he’s familiar enough with the old testament God, the one who was particularly fond of full-scale punishment for humanity’s sins: cities turned to dust, children stolen in the night, waters rising to wipe the slate clean.

Dean wonders if that’s where Cas gets it from, if he spent so long helping God carrying out his divine wrath that it’s been built into him. If it’s become his first nature and now his own actions and their consequences are incapable of being anything other than Biblical in proportion.

Dean knows what it’s like to spend your whole life trying to unlearn everything your father has beat into you. He supposes that even angels have a hard time breaking bad habits.

Dean, for his part, is still trying to work his way out from under the guilt and shame and hurt that have always felt like his particular cross to bear, the consequences of his own stubbornness, of his refusal to let anything trump the first order he was ever given. Most days, it feels like an impossible task.

Cas’ punishments are far more than mere feelings. They have form and history, they have agency, they have proper-noun names.

This is what Cas gets for stepping into the shoes of his absent father, for trying to save the world: Leviathan. Lucifer.

Dean looks at himself in the mirror, at the dark circles under his eyes, his way-past-5 o’clock shadow, and he wonders what Cas is going to look like the next time he sees him. He remembers what Cas had looked like when he was host to Leviathan, the way his skin had boiled and bled. He remembers, too, what had happened to Lucifer’s imperfect host, the way his flesh had flaked and peeled. It’s all too easy for him to combine the two, to picture Cas falling apart piece by piece as Lucifer rides his way into the apocalypse.

Dean wonders how he’ll lose Cas this time -- if the universe will come up with something new or if it will force him into the worst kind of deja vu. He already has a sick sort of sense of _I’ve seen it all_ \-- he’s watched Cas burst into a spray of blood and viscera, watched him descend into the water on unsteady feet, watched him breathe his last around the blade in his chest.

He remembers, too, what happened to Raphael’s vessel, that poor guy who had been chained to something far more vast and violent than a comet; who had been left, silent and insensate, once heaven was done with him. He wonders, even if Lucifer leaves, what kind of Cas he’s going to get back. If he’s just going to get back a piece of him, only half, maybe less. If what he’s left with will seem anything like Cas at all.

He’s seen Cas come back, time and time again, with parts of himself missing. He’s seen Cas without his sense of purpose or fight or self. It isn’t something he cares to repeat.

Still, as he settles onto his bed, he finds himself thinking that regardless of what version of Cas he got back, he’d probably still l--

He stops himself mid-train of thought.

 _Love him anyway,_ he was going to think.

He would still love him anyway.

That’s what this is, Dean realizes. That’s what they’ve been dancing around all these years, that’s what’s been behind it all, the not-quite-confessions exchanged and ignored as though they weren’t earth-shattering.

 _I need you_ haunts him like a salt and burn gone wrong.

 _I love you_ is something else entirely.

He’s pretty sure it’s everything they could have if they stopped holding back.

Because they are, Dean knows. He knows Cas is holding himself back. That he’s forcing himself to only love Dean halfway, like maybe he’s scared what he’ll wreak upon the world if he allows himself the full breadth of feeling.

Dean is scared of it, too, albeit on a more personal level. He wonders if it might destroy him if he stopped living his life halfway, if he finally managed to pull his other foot out of the grave.

He also wonders if maybe that fear is what got them into this mess in the first place, if their constant inaction was the catalyst for Cas’ decision, and that scares him more.

He falls asleep thinking about fixing it, fantasizing about doing something other than just standing too close, staring too long. He tries to imagine what would happen if he finally leaned in, if he met Cas halfway.

He dreams he’s standing in some strange amalgam of the bunker and the barn, shelves lined with books sitting against walls painted with sigils. There’s hardwood under his feet and lightning flashing through cracks in the ceiling, intermittently piercing through the gloom.

Cas stands in the open doorway with his back to Dean. There’s something off in the set of his shoulders, the easy way he wears the ill fitting suit, the absence of his coat. It’s all wrong.

“Let him go,” Dean tries to shout, but it comes out as barely more than a whisper.

Lucifer turns Cas’ head, glances at Dean over his shoulder, frowning. The light in the impossible space Dean’s subconscious has created shifts as Lucifer turns, the shadows of his wings sliding across the walls, slipping into the corners, spreading across the floor. There isn’t anywhere Dean can stand where he won’t be in the shade they create.

Lucifer looks at Dean curiously, tilts his head in a poor approximation of one of Cas’ gestures. “Why?” he asks, as though he’s legitimately interested in hearing Dean’s answer.

“Because I love him,” Dean says, and though he knows entire world has hung in the balance before, this feels like the first time he’s put everything on the line.

What Dean wants is a flood of light, for Cas to expel Lucifer and his rotten grace, for his admission to be enough. Instead, all he gets is Lucifer throwing Cas’ head back, laughing and laughing like Dean Winchester is the greatest joke his father has ever told.

Dean wakes with a start, half choking on the taste of bile and the desperate plea he’s spent the past seven years trying to articulate.

He sits on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, head in his hands, and forces his breathing to even out one agonizing inhale-exhale at a time.

“Hey,” he starts, voice hoarse, before he catches himself.

There’s a moment where he wonders if he can do this in good conscience. If he’ll be able to stand the irony after how critical he was of Sam and his faith in an absent God. If he’ll be able to put up with his own hypocrisy long enough to pray to the person he can’t seem to stop himself from believing in.

There’s another moment where he wonders if he’ll even be able to get through to Cas or if his prayers will be intercepted just like Sam’s.

There are many moments where he sits, silent and unmoving, telling himself this is something he should do regardless. Something he _needs_ to do.

When he finally manages to convince himself, he doesn’t get down on his knees. He doesn’t fold his hands. He simply sits there, eyes closed, fingers digging into his scalp, and takes a deep breath.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean prays. “You got your ears on?”


End file.
